Jumble Jim's Knife at Night, volume 1...

You're listening to KNYF, the Knife at Night at the throats of all you here in New York, and you're with the Contrarian Count, Jumble Jim in his all-day rant-fest...

I know this is reduntant as hell, but you know what I hate? Everything, that's true, but idiots most of all. Seriously, I was walking in Times Square two nights ago and I noticed a gaggle of gape-jawed knuckle-draggers gawking at a lamp-post. A freakin' lamp post. Its Times Square! Go to Toys R Us or just check out any of the displays! Freakin' lamp post.

Security's gotten tighter through everything nowadays. I can't even take a toothpick out of a restaurant without getting the stink-eye from the fuzz. Big whoop, I might get a splinter in my gum, call Homeland Security.

Whoever's big idea it was to bust up that building was an empty-headed moron. Whoever it pissed off, we'll never know. Now my heart goes out to the twelve-odd people that lost their lives, but the reason I'm pissed is because that bombing was completely unnecessary. There was nothing found! Nothing to suggest any kind of importance. Terrorism at its finest, America - targeting homes for the sake of targeting homes.

You know what we should do with whoever's responsible? Give 'em a fair trial. Trial by jury of their peers, judged to the fullest extent of the law, and the punishment should be death by blender. Or at least a hell of a root canal for every tooth. Oh no, I sound draconic, I sound barbaric! Better than getting turned into jelly from an explosion. You don't like what I say, change the station, you bleeding-heart pussies.

Speaking of, its hate-mail time. *there's the sound of the AOL 'You've got mail' jingle, with Hayden Christiansen's lackluster 'I HATE YOU!!!' from Star Wars, Episode 3 interspersed between the 'got' and 'mail.*

"Dear Jumble Jim,
What's the matter with you, you little pussy bitch?" Same as the usual college-grade crybaby horseshit, it seems.
"You think you can say all this shit and not have it come back to get you?" No, I'm sure it'll come back to get me. But you need to learn to spell, because you missed some letters in 'you,' 'come,' and 'what's.' I'd actually give you my home address and directions to it, but I'm not sure if you'd know how to read them. So, actually, yeah, I think I can say this shit with full confidence that you won't get me.
"I eat faggots like you for breakfast." Wow. Just wow. Let's read that over again. You eat faggots? For breakfast? Now I'd make a termite joke, but I'd just say you need better word choice, at least when you're not throat-deep in pole yourself, bucko.
"Show your face in public sometime and I'll send you back in a body bag motherfucker." Okay, you got me here. I'm actually a three-hundred pound basement-dweller afraid of the sun and interaction with the opposite sex, and I let it out by railing against everything to make myself feel better.

*there's a pause for effect*

Next line reads, "You keep this shit up and I'll grab my boys and we'll fuck you up. Signed, Klaw-D." Now, look, I know he was trying really hard. But I think if he decided to write it himself instead of his elementary-grade kid brother, I'd probably give it a little extra thought. Nice try, no luck.

Look, Klaw-D, like I said I'd invite you but I'm not sure you can read. What I can say is this though. When you're done staring at a lamp post in Times Square and making your 2nd-grade sibling write your hate mail because you learned 'on dah streets homes,' dip your head in the East River twice and pull it out once. Do us all a favor, you fucking tool.

Up next I've got some bad poetry I've managed to scoop up form Gaia, and a few opinions on gun control laws. For now, though, a little Dire Straits...

*'Money For Nothing' begins to play*

Hahaha, that was great!

I'm just like hearing this gnarly man's voice saying all of this, freaking awesome.

But... I... *like* lampposts...